


fade to black

by nikincafe



Series: fade to black [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Crying, Fluff, Hamburg, Hamburg Era, Happy Ending, Lots of tiny useless flashbacks, Love Confession, M/M, One-Shot, Period-Typical Homophobia Implied but not Explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 03:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20333122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikincafe/pseuds/nikincafe
Summary: Hamburg, spring 1961. In the morning after a long night of performing at the Top Ten, Klaus brings George to his flat for what they both assume is just going to be a friendly visit. The drink is fuzzy and the sun outside is so hazy. Words start spilling out and Klaus can’t pick them back up again.





	fade to black

“Y’ shouldn’t be bringin’ me ‘ere alone, y’know. People might think we’re doing somethin’  _naughty_ .”

Klaus only glances back at George as he fumbles with the lock to his flat, a typical artist’s pad. The key is blurry and so is the keyhole; they’ve both had too much to drink before coming on back here. “Don’t... don’t be silly,” he says in what George thinks at first to be his typical demeanor: wary and tepid. Unaware at first that his friend is just  _ joking _ . “Friends should be able to visit each other’s homes. Why the fuss?”

It’s George’s second visit to Hamburg, now a strapping young man of 18 years, and springtime is finally settling in for the month. The band has never wandered the earth here above anything but snow and ice, so Klaus has been adamant (though meekly so) that George and his friends go out more often and see that Germany isn’t always as bleak or drab as it is in the winter. His English has gotten better, Astrid’s as well, though George notices that it’s more him learning what he can and then relaying it back to her—the blind leading the blind. Jürgen’s interpretation of English seems to be different and more American. He writes “color” while Klaus and Astrid write “colour”, (at least he  _thinks_ Klaus writes “colour”—his handwriting sucks sometimes) and he says “sidewalk” and not “pavement”. It’s a symbolic distinction between him and the other two exis: Klaus and Astrid, the domestic and classy innovators, and Jürgen, the more rebellious and reckless manifestation of the same principles. George likes Jürgen like that. 

In their newfound spring, everything feels hazy and white and blinding. Klaus’s dazed eyes, the paleness in his cheeks even despite his drink, it seems wrong. It was like that in the winter too, but George had attributed to the gloomy weather back then.

George remembers fondly the first time he heard Astrid swear in English. It was during their first Hamburg stay and a visit to her house, a muttered “_fuckin’ hell_” in response to tea spilling onto the kitchen counter. John never let her live that down. The first thing he shouted when he saw her after dismounting the train from London was  “fuckin’ hell!”

George bites his lip as Klaus nudges him inside and flicks the lights on, though the early morning light from the windows would have sufficed. This is where Klaus lived before he got with Astrid, and when Stu took his place, he came back here. It’s situated on the verge of the Altona and the Reeperbahn districts, a tidy bridge between both worlds, the perfect place for someone like Klaus. The teddy boy remembers vaguely of him saying that his art teacher used to live here too. Neither he nor Astrid remember the man fondly—she described him as being very adamant, forcing Klaus to work all the time. Klaus himself said, very simply, that he’s just glad he doesn’t see him anymore.

In terms of furnishing, the flat is rather bare, the walls here are painted an off-white. But they are tacked floor-to-ceiling with art projects, both large Bristol boards and tiny thumbnails on torn-out notebook paper or even napkins. Most of the art is done for magazines—is it Hörzu that Klaus works for? George doesn’t remember clearly, brain still fuzzy with drink. Anyway, it’s the album cover designs that he admires more, and stops to study each one as he passes. He’d love for Klaus to design a Beatles album cover one day, if they ever got the money to pay him for it.

Klaus’s room is also plastered in drawings, but these move away from graphic design and delve into more personal work: portraits, illustrations, landscapes of the city and the docks. The scenery here too, it is hazy and white and almost foggy because of the way the graphite had been smudged on the papers. George spots several drawings of himself clustered on the wall above the bed, some simple scribble-sketches and some very intricate, applied with painstaking detail and precision. His mind wanders to a pulsing image of Klaus caressing his design with long fingers, smudging in every last feature, immortalised—and then Klaus sculpts George to life, fingertips gracing the skin of his cheekbone so gingerly, as if the crease was plated with fine gold leaf. He cups George’s face in his spindly charred hands and moves closer...

“Teach me something in German,” George prompts, sitting up on the little twin-sized bed and swinging his legs a bit. “What is  _mäuschen_ ? I hear Astrid call you that sometimes.”

Klaus shuffles over to his workspace, an cheap-looking artist’s desk at a slanted angle with all the papers and pencils on it. “Something like... mouse,” he says. “mouse, or little mouse. Kind of cute-name, like... liebling, darling, sweetie.” George watches as the German sighs longingly and looks up, where a messily-conjured older drawing of an Astrid with longer hair meets his gaze .  Her face is so intimidating, portrayed in this way. There, his eyes linger for a moment before he recedes to the bed, sitting about five feet apart from George.

“Mäuschen,” The teddy boy repeats, and then says it a few more times. “Mäuschen... Mäuschen.” A grin breaks out. “I like it. It’s cute.” Klaus can’t help but smile back, a murky giggle contained within cloudy troubled resin. George notices and decides he won’t let that pass. “What’s the matter with you? Yer’ all sad.”

“Am drunk, Georgie,” he mumbles. “Of course... course I’m sad. ”

“Why’d you bring me here?”

“I’m lonely.”

“Don’ be lonely. ‘M right here, y’know.”

“No... you’re so far away.”

George furrows his brows and thinks about that. How could he be far away? They’re right next to each other in this little flat, on the bed... surely he‘s just being silly.

“Come closer then,” The guitarist gestures. And the next thing he knows, Klaus is on top of him, sobbing into his chest.

“You don’t— _hic_ —get it, Georgie,” The poor maus wails as he grabs fistfuls of the fabric from George’s white t-shirt and writhes about in anguish. “You’re so far away. You’re so far away. I can’t touch you.”

“Stop bein’ daft!” George scolds, hands reaching up to clasp behind Klaus’s back as he tries to soothe him. He can feel the spine jutting out from beneath the skin and each individual rib that spreads tangent to it like sickly little angel wings trapped underneath, even through the sweater. If Klaus were to reciprocate, he’d be able to feel George’s ribcage too. Their bodies are so close together now; he almost feels overwhelmed from the heat coming off from the other boy. “I said it already, ‘m right here. What is it? Don’t cry.”

Klaus shakes his head. His tears are burning into the shirt. “You don’t get it! You’re so far away.”

“No ‘m no’...” A protest that slurs into incoherence is drowned out by Klaus’s muffled whimpers. George stops for a moment and wonders if it’s some sort of language barrier... a wall of spoken tongue that restrains Klaus from expressing himself with a whole heart.  _What are you going on about? _ George asks silently, hopelessly. Astrid always said that Klaus had never been so good at speaking, even in German. He’s always kept his mouth shut, and now George doesn’t understand what he wants to tell him…

“Why Astrid did not love me?” he sucks in shallow breaths but seems to be drowning in something George can’t feel. “She and Stuart are so beautiful together. I am so happy for her but I know she only hates me. I never have love.”

“That’s not true,” George struggles for words now too. He’s like Klaus: quiet, unassuming, thoughtful... at least compared to his bandmates. But usually, it’s easier for him to say what he’s thinking. What’s happening? “Y’r a lovely bloke, Klaus. I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

“You’re so far away.”

Finally realizing that something else is meant, George stops and feels his ear-tips twitch. Is this what he thinks it is?

Klaus’s mouth is soft, his bottom lip always plushed and slightly moist, trembling. Dark lips that one’s eyes are immediately drawn to, from such a pale and striking face. When he kisses George, they taste faintly of salt—and more strongly of alcohol.

—

George remembers Jürgen on the ferry. What he had said from behind his borrowed camera—something about a secret. Jürgen slyly holds George’s hand and whispers in his ear, setting the camera aside, and George forgets what they had come there for in the first place. His natural youth-faulted naivety blends with his stark awareness for everything around him—the ever-restless dual pisces fish, not yet at peace—and he takes in every detail without acting either in withdrawal or in interest.

“You’re very sweet,” Jürgen murmurs, a smirk struggling to stifle itself at the corner of his thin lips. George wonders in awe of the enigma that is Jürgen Vollmer. Irrefutably said, he’s never met anyone like him before. The man appeared to be somewhat of a recluse at first, unable to maintain steady eye contact and avidly avoiding parties and socialization, especially with girls. First assuming that he was just painstakingly shy, George later learned that Jürgen would rapidly start to feel faint when surrounded by so many people—some sort of anxiety that a lot of German doctors are reluctant to diagnose. His true majesty only manifests to a single party. That’s right: Jürgen only feels at ease when it’s just him and one other person. This is especially apparent now, even in this sort of setting, as long as he is focusing solely and exclusively on George. The intimacy of the situation does not escape George, and he’s overtly aware of the game: they’re in public, and people are peeking.

“Is this a date?” he asks calmly, as if the answer wouldn’t particularly disturb him—because really, it doesn’t. John and Paul have been snickering about Jürgen’s crush on George for a while already; he knows about the man’s nature by now. He’s somewhat wary of the mysterious exi, and yet flattered, knowing that Jürgen, as cool and sensitive as he is, is interested in little else than Parisian clothing and only the cutest boys.

“You could say that,” says Jürgen, equally unperturbed. All the way back to shore, they hold hands and exchange no more thoughts in spoken word.

So George gets off the ferry that day thinking that Jürgen is the one that fancies him.

And yet, his mind wanders to Klaus still.

—

“I’m—I’m... in love with you,” The mouse’s words trip over anguish after he had pulled away. “You are so beautiful and—a-and talented. I want you...”

“... Klaus?” He doesn’t know how he is supposed to respond here either. He tastes something wonderful that taints him—the forbidden fruit that is sweet and lures the maw into death. An outcast from Eden will not ever find him here.

“Georgie...”

The nimble fingers of an skilled guitarist wrap around Klaus’s heartstrings with ease, inducing a sudden sob that fails to die in the mouse’s strained throat, and though George hadn’t moved at all, Klaus reels back as if he had just been dealt a blow to the face. He retreats across the bed, crying through eyes now tinted a breaking red. “Georgie, I’m sorry. Forget—just forget what I did.”

“Wh... what? No, wait, Klaus...”

“No... no. I’m sorry. You should go, the others will wonder where are you, oh, god...” Klaus laments and scrambles to push himself off of George, who looks dazed and confused. “I beg you, please... don’t tell anyone I... that I—“

“That you kissed me?” George asks bluntly, and then quickly shuts his mouth when Klaus visibly winces. 

“... Yes,” he whispers. 

“... that I kissed you.”

The moment stagnates, with Klaus sitting at the foot of the bed and George leaning back at the head, Klaus fidgeting with his hands and his ears burning with shame, while George just stares at him, not knowing what to do next.

It felt  _good_ . There’s no doubt about it. Klaus’s soft, plushed lips felt absolutely perfect. Even though they’re drunk, he was so gentle and felt so warm and wonderful, and the realization hits George hard: he wants  more .

He _needs_ more .

So George snakes forward and pounces on him and pulls him in again and Klaus’s shock melts into delight and he revels, his entire body quaking in agony. The visceral swoop of his plight nosedives as he give Klaus exactly what he wants—what he  _needs_ —and never resurfaces again.

Time loses its grip on them when they kiss. Klaus’s long, dark hair brushes against George’s forehead, parts of it catching into George’s oily, brushed up locks. Klaus advances his ginger hands, one gently pressing against the back of his counterpart’s head, the other snaking around his waist, riding up the hem of his black t-shirt. Everything about it is perfect and beautiful.

George doesn’t even know he’s out of breath until he finally pulls away and realizes he’s panting for air. Klaus is staring back at him with wide, wild blue eyes, those gorgeous and striking eyes, and those  _lips_ . Christ, those lips, he could kiss them forever.

“I’m in love with you,” Klaus finally says it, and suddenly his floodgates crash forth. Words that he had concealed for so long are spilling over at last. “I loved you from the moment I first saw you, Georgie. I—I was so lonely that night, Astrid was angry with me and I was just lost, I was so lost and sad... but then, then I saw you for the first time, and you were so beautiful up there on stage with your guitar. I love the way you smiled... you’re always laughing and making jokes and enjoying yourself. Whenever you smiled, it made my heart feel so shaky, a-and I lost so much sleep, thinking about you, drawing you...

“... I always loved your smile, Georgie. The way you are happy, even though you always have to work all night, and you don’t have a lot of money. I always wished I could be happy as much as you.”

“Then...” George slowly takes both of Klaus’s hands and squeezes them gently, gazing up into Klaus’s eyes that seem to darken with moisture, just a little. “let me make you happy.”

Klaus’s cheeks are tainted pink at last. It has all caught up to them now.

“Stay with me,” He pleads softly. “Let’s sleep here together until the sun goes down. Don’t go back to that dirty old place.”

“And share a bunk with those flea-bitten louts? You don’t even have to ask—“ George breaks into one of his signature lopsided grins, the ones that Klaus so helplessly adores. “Of course ‘m stayin’ with you.”

George has always wondered what an exi’s hair feels like. He and his bandmates always use up a tub of Brylcreem every time they style their quiffs, and the end result is stiff and slick-looking with a blinding glare. But the exis never did anything fancy with their hair; he wouldn’t admit it, but George is a little envious of how simple their style is. It must be nice not having to spend an hour working on trying to get it to stand up and  _stay that way_ —by the end of their gig, all their hair would be a tousled mess. Exi hair isn’t slick, it’s soft and blow-dried and a little matte. This is especially apparent now as George runs his fingers through Klaus’s hair, and even despite his calloused pads, he marvels at how fluffy it is, like a mouse’s fur. It smells faintly of the same shampoo George uses when he washes at Astrid’s house. Fantastic stuff, that is. He pecks Klaus’s forehead as he takes in the scent.

And what joy it is to hear Klaus practice pronouncing “I love you” over and over again, quiet but gleeful and with stars in his eyes. George repeats back with a cheeky “ich liebe dich” each time and plants a kiss on his nose, and the little giggle he gets in return is music to his ears.

The world outside is hazy and white and the sun is blinding, but right in here in their tiny burrow with the lights off and curtains drawn, they are safe and enveloped in darkness and each other’s arms. George listens for Klaus’s quiet, steady breaths as they doze off together, his fists loosely clutching the hem of his sweater, and for as long as he can keep his eyes open, he traces Klaus’s features delicately and with loving manner. When they finally drift off, the world is black.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fic... this one has been in the works for several months now. It’s been a long time since I last posted a proper fanfiction so don’t look at anything else on my profile because it is super old and gross lol. 
> 
> If you want more, please leave feedback asking me to continue this, or you can also request other fics too! I figure I want to start writing fanfiction again (I have lots of drafts and ideas stored), but only if I’m certain at least one or two people are interested in seeing it, since I have a lot of responsibilities and I don’t want to write if the payoff is really low. That being said, thanks to everyone who viewed the fic! Kudos and comments appreciated as always. Consider subscribing so you can see whenever I upload :) Thanks everyone!


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